


Winter Wolves

by Charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Book 5: A Dance with Dragons, Castle Black, F/M, Sexual Content, Song of Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 22:16:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16941699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: Breath as hard-edged as the icy world without, he kisses her.An eagle sits at Castle Black, a crow sets her free.





	Winter Wolves

Lonely and lovely and lethal, a winter rose grows from a chink in a wall of ice. The world is three here: black and white and grey. The world is _small_ here: castle and wall and gate. There is glass and iron and oaken doors, there is brick and stone and slate. Men move here like sheep in a pinfold – like little black ants swarming snow and ice and hard frost. They move and they move and they move; they go nowhere.

“I am no southron woman,” she says.

She is an eagle soaring high on blue-grey wings, she is a wolf slipping as a shadow from the wood, she is a fox of white fur and nimble foot, she is a snow bear with a roar to shake giants, she is the weirwood in the ancient grove. Ivory and gold, she sits in a tower of black, watching a world of white and grey and men moving like sheep in a pinfold. Fire flares thick and fierce in the hearth; she turns her back to it. _What need have I of fire?_

“I am a woman of the free folk,” she says.

Eyes of blue and grey melted together like hard frost: a winter rose growing from a chink in a wall of ice. Hair of honey – dark honey that glitters silver in the moonlight. The land of always winter makes her face: cheekbones high as bluffs and plains, the line of brow and nose and lip and chin a song of dark mountains brushed with snow. She sits in a tower of black, watching a world of white and grey and men moving like sheep in a pinfold – but she is winter: she is the north, she is the wild, she is the white winds that blow across its peaks and dips and lakes of ice. _What need have I of fire?_ Fire is death in the land of always winter, fire is the glow that calls the eagle’s eye, fire is the beacon of black brothers.

“Lonely and lovely and lethal – and I might have had you,” he says.

The world is _small_ here: castle and wall and gate. Men move here like sheep in a pinfold – like little black ants swarming snow and ice and hard frost. They move and they move and they move; they go nowhere. _But him?_ He is a wolf amongst the sheep, he moves as a shadow across a world of black and white and grey. Ivory and gold, she turns and sets her eyes on him. Eyes of blue and grey melted together like hard frost: a winter rose growing from a chink in a wall of ice. He is as black and white and grey as the world he treads so restlessly: black and black and black, furs and leathers and gloves and boots, skin pearl as the moon, eyes the dark grey of a coming storm. _Wolf’s eyes_. They drink her: lap at the velvet of her cheek like a rough tongue at an icy stream. _I am winter and so is he_. He fills the room: a warrior, a watchman, a wildling.

She is an eagle soaring high on blue-grey wings, she is a wolf slipping as a shadow from the wood, she is a fox of white fur and nimble foot, she is a snow bear with a roar to shake giants, she is the weirwood in the ancient grove. _And he?_ He is a crow clipping at her wings, he is a wolf of red eyes and white fur, he is a shadowcat of lithe grace and grim teeth, he is a snow bear with a roar to shake giants, he is the weirwood in the ancient grove… he is – they are… _One_.

“Would you give me hope?” she says.

He is a shadow before the fire; flames flicker and drink him. Eyes so dark they are pitch and night and endless sky – starlight catches and they burst like purple flowers. Indigo, endless – they are a song of ice and fire in a world of black and white and grey. _Wolf’s eyes_. The flames turn him from black to crimson, limn dark hair and wild beard, set shoulders to bear a cloak of scarlet and yellow and orange. _Ice and fire_ … the flames are drawn to him, burn as ruby red as the heart pulsing beneath his ribs, hissing to feel the ice that tempers fire in his blood.

“What is hope?” he says.

They step together as the flames twist and flare and twirl as one. Ivory and gold, black and white and grey: wolf circles wolf, fox steps with shadowcat, eagle soars with crow. The bearskin cloak falls from her shoulders: a pool of snow to melt at their feet. Her fingers are bone-white against the black of his beard.

“A half-blind horse,” she says. “Salt cod. Free air.”

They are fire in this world of ice: hard hands and hot mouths, bones and blood and breath. Black and black and black – but he is white as ivory beneath furs and leathers and gloves and boots. _I am winter and so is he_. A tall pale spectre in the dark: he shines like silver – like the moonlight on her hair of honey. Eyes of blue and grey melted together like frost – wolf and wolf, fox and shadowcat, eagle and crow. His hand is at her throat; his thumb a rough edge tipping back against skin white as bone. Breath as hard-edged as the icy world without, he kisses her. His hand is frozen to her flesh – steady as a snow bear closing jaw on prey. She fights: she is the north, she is the wild, she is winter. _But so is he_. She wants him – he steals her and she feels his heart like smoke lift into her blood and bones and breath. _One_ …

“I will give you hope,” he says.

Eyes of blue and grey melted together like hard frost: a winter rose growing from a chink in a wall of ice. Hair of honey – dark honey that glitters silver in the moonlight. The land of always winter makes her face: cheekbones high as bluffs and plains, the line of brow and nose and lip and chin a song of dark mountains brushed with snow. _And he?_ He is a song, too – but not of mountains. He is a shadow, a shout, a storm – a song, for true. _Of what?_ Black and black and black shot by eyes of indigo, endless. Flames drink him, ice kisses him: it makes a song that is his blood. _A song of ice and fire_.

Their mouths melt together like the blue and grey of her eyes: hard frost, frozen stone, snow, ice, flames and ash and smoke – wolf and wolf, fox and shadowcat, eagle and crow. Ivory and gold, black and white and grey: they mix, they bleed, they weave. She is on her back amongst furs and pelts and he is on her. Her thighs are silver as her hair in the moonlight – they part beneath him, wrap at his sides like vines around a weirwood, draw him flat against her with the strength of wolf and bear and eagle. His hand a grip of ice on her throat again. She tips her head and snarls. Men move here like sheep in a pinfold – like little black ants swarming snow and ice and hard frost. They move and they move and they move; they go nowhere. _Not him_. He parts her where she is hottest and he moves and he is there, he is here – he is _her_.

“Lonely and lovely and lethal – and I have you,” he says.

She is an eagle soaring high on blue-grey wings, she is a wolf slipping as a shadow from the wood, she is a fox of white fur and nimble foot, she is a snow bear with a roar to shake giants, she is the weirwood in the ancient grove – she is _his_. He moves her high as the mountain peaks that make her face, he sets her hot as the fire in the hearth, he plunges her to the ice that makes their blood. They move together, fierce and true, as one – rolling, surging, gripping, fighting, _fucking_. They are winter: they are the north, they are the wild, they are the white winds that blow across its peaks and lakes of ice.

“You have my thanks, Jon Snow,” she says. “For the half-blind horse, the salt cod, the free air. For hope.”

She feels the fire from his blood as it burns her own. It pulses from him: flame and frost, turns the winter of her body to blaze and flare and burst. They are eagles shrieking, they are wolves howling, they are foxes growling, they are snow bears roaring – they are the red-rip mouths of weirwoods moaning in the ancient grove. Their mouths melt together like the blue and grey of her eyes: hard frost, frozen stone, snow, ice, flames and ash and smoke – wolf and wolf, fox and shadowcat, eagle and crow. _His, I am his_. Eyes so dark they are pitch and night and endless sky – starlight catches and they burst like purple flowers. Indigo, endless – they are a song of ice and fire in a world of black and white and grey. _Wolf’s eyes_. Sharp as his teeth that pull on her lip. _And mine, he is mine_.

The world is small here: castle and wall and gate. Men move here like sheep in a pinfold – like little black ants swarming snow and ice and hard frost. They move and they move and they move; they go nowhere. _But he and I?_ They are wolves among the sheep, they move free as birds and bears in this world of black and white and grey.

They are winter: they are the north, they are the wild, they are the white winds that blow across its peaks and lakes of ice. _One_. They are one.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. _Lonely and lovely and lethal_... lifted (and adapted) from _A Dance with Dragons_ Chapter 10: Jon III.  
> 2\. _I am no southron lady_... lifted (and adapted) from _A Dance with Dragons_ Chapter 39: Jon VIII.  
> 3\. _You have my thanks_... lifted (and adapted) from _A Dance with Dragons_ Chapter 39: Jon VIII.  
>  **NB** : my first foray into one of my favourite pairings from the books, please feel free to leave feedback etc. ❤️


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